Revolution

Rain leaps in the street like white flames.
Drops burst from macadam crevices like silver mortars.
A leaf goes by
running the streetwater;
only one,
with his autumn death already brown upon him.

One leaf, riding the streetwater,
this one time swept along by events.
One small leaf
still wondering why, when the wind whispered, he leaped.

One insignificant leaf whirled along in a revolution of water,
tearing itself on the macadam when the water almost runs out.
Almost
almost
almost
stopped,
time upon time
turning on one point
after another,
tip and stem
and needlepoint,
into the main current.

One revolutionary leaf
moving mindlessly unaware of his movement
in the inevitable current.

One other leaf,
aground,
immune to the water’s rush,
wearing her shroud of orange like a veil,
wondering why, when the wind whispered, she leapt  —
until
some wind
(why does it always happen just this way?)
ripples the center flow an inch, and they collide.

Hung on the honeyed moment they enjoy
the battle of go and stay
until they twist without breaking
into the sweep of water
to rush
to rush
to rush
headlong

under the parked machine.

And the water bubbles moon domes
like lives beginning
and loves flowering
and both bursting.
And the needles of rain leap out of the water in protest
and fall back invisible.

While brown and grey and grey/black, the water pours
out of the driveway and into the street,
into the street and under the car.

Leafless —
until one magnificent leaf
gold in his autumn death,
wearing his orange like a cloak of kings,
one giant, palm-wide leaf,
one majestic leaf,
moves in the rich brown center current
as if the water moves by him.

The rain quickens like a drumbeat
and a white shadow of wind blows across
(why does it always happen just this way?)

until behind him the matted leaves,
pressed and dead,
quicken as the swollen stream
reaches out like history
to touch them.

And they too spin and wheel
and free themselves of rises where the last rain left them
to rush together like a nation of madmen
headlong after the majestic leaf
down the rich brown center current of time
headlong
headlong
headlong

into death.

(why does it always happen just this way?)

©WILLIAM JOHN WATKINS (1969)